“I don’t believe you’ve got a sister.” I laughed. “If you have, her name is Harris!”
“Do you remember mine?” she asked, with a smile.
“Cinderella. But you’re going to tell me the real one now, aren’t you?”
She shook her head with a wicked look.
“Not even why you’re here?”
“Oh, that! I suppose you’ve heard of members of my profession ‘resting.’”
“At expensive French watering-places?”
“Dirt cheap if you know where to go.”
I eyed her keenly. “Still, you’d no intention of coming here when I met you two days ago?”
“We all have our disappointments,” said Miss Cinderella sententiously. “There now, I’ve told you quite as much as is good for you. Little boys should not be inquisitive. You’ve not yet told me what you’re doing here? Got the M.P. in tow, I suppose, doing the gay boy on the beach.”
I shook my head. “Guess again. You remember my telling you that my great friend was a detective?”
“Yes?”
And perhaps you’ve heard about this crime—at the Villa Geneviève?”
She stared at me. Her breast heaved, and her eyes grew wide and round.
“You don’t mean—that you’re in on that?”
I nodded. There was no doubt that I had scored heavily. Her emotion, as she regarded me, was only too evident. For some few seconds she remained silent, staring at me. Then she nodded her head emphatically.
“Well, if that doesn’t beat the band! Tote me round. I want to see all the horrors.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I say. Bless the boy, didn’t I tell you I doted on crimes? What do you think I’m imperiling my ankles for in high-heeled shoes over this stubble? I’ve been nosing round for hours. Tried the front way in, but that old stick-in-the-mud of a French gendarme wasn’t taking any. I guess Helen
63
